


Not giving up but giving in

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Addiction, Awkward Sexual Situations, Dialogue, First Time, George is definitely a quick learner, Immaturity, M/M, Mitchell definitely leaves his socks on in bed, Oral Sex, Smoking, UST, Werewolf, blowjob, fumbling awkward sex, smugness, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-03 03:44:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You come home to find your flatmate naked in your bed, smoking. What do you do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [entanglednow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/gifts).



“Mitchell?” George’s voice almost chokes off on a note of surprise, his knuckles white on the doorframe, “What are you doing?”  
“Smoking a cigarette?” _Insufferable prick._  
“I can - yes, I can see that. Why are you doing it…” he gestures helplessly around, “in here? I mean this is - this is _my_ room, for one thing! And it’s-“  
“What is it?” The smirk is audible in his voice.  
“Well, it’s a fire hazard! You’ll burn the whole house down!”  
“That’s only in fire safety ads. I have no intention of falling asleep.”  
“Then what do you intend to -“ Mitchell raises his eyebrows suggestively, “oh, Mitchell,” George leans against the doorframe, rests his forehead against his arms in defeat, “why are you smoking in my bed?”  
Above the duvet, Mitchell stretches his arms out and flicks ash into a mug on the nightstand and it’s all that George can do not to dart forward and take the offending dog-end from between his fingers and stub it out. Open a few windows. Air the place out a bit. It already smells like a 90s nightclub, he can even detect the faintest scent of skin and sweat and-  
“I thought it would annoy you.”  
“You thought - it - right. That’s.” George pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s brilliant. And you want to annoy me why?”  
Mitchell grins. “Because it makes the tips of your ears turn red.”  
George hates that at that moment, that _precise_ moment, he can feel his ears start to burn. His hands go up, instinctively, to feel and he has to stop himself, cross his arms in an awkward gesture that betrays him a little less.  
“See?”  
“Shut up.” The blush starts to spread to the top of his cheeks; he can feel its heat. It happens too much around Mitchell, always around Mitchell.  
“See! Look at you!” Mitchell is clearly delighted.  
“I am not - oh, Jesus. Are you drunk?”  
Mitchell shakes his head, greasy curls falling into his eyes. “No. Maybe just-“ he pinches thumb and forefinger together to show, “a little bit - ohoho!” juggling his cigarette with the gesture he nearly drops it, ash showering the duvet.  
“See! That’s what I - at least use an ashtray, here-“ George scurries forward, offering the mug with distaste.  
“I’m in your bed naked and you’re offering me an ashtray?”  
“You’re -“ _What? Why? Can he tell? What does this mean?_ “oh Mitchell, no, you’re not?”  
“You want to come and check?” Mitchell pointedly parts his long legs beneath the covers and George can feel the burning flare up again, spreading, spreading heat… “No! And - no! You never go commando in another man’s bunk!”  
Mitchell bites his lip, visibly struggling to hold in laughter. “You want me to leave?” He makes to flip back the duvet.  
“No!” George covers his eyes with one hand, spreads his fingers to peek and check. _This has to be a wind-up._ “What the hell is this about?”  
“I said. I wanted to annoy you.”  
“I see. So is this a regular thing. The…” he rolls his eyes “ears thing? Anything else you do?”  
“Well, I leave all the forks the wrong way round in the cutlery drawer.”  
 _Jesus Fucking H._ “I know you do. I know, I’ve noticed that.”  
His grin is maddening. “Drives you nuts, doesn’t it?”  
 _Yes_. “No. I just like order-”  
“-and I open the Crunchy Nut Cornflakes even if the regular Cornflakes aren’t finished yet.”  
“Oh, _Mitchell!_ That’s just wasteful, you know they go soft-“  
“-and I put the red tea-towel into your white wash.”  
“That was _you_?”  
Mitchell’s smirk makes George itch to slap him. Or - _something_ of that nature.  
“What is _wrong_ with you?”  
“I just like it when you’re pissed off. You’re scrappy.”  
“ _Scrappy_? Like what, _Scrappy Doo_?”  
Mitchell’s laugh shows all of his teeth, crinkles the corners of his eyes, makes him drop another flurry of ash onto the bed, which he brushes off with the side of one hand, a gesture that makes the muscles in his shoulders bunch and shift and - George reels it in, affecting comforting indignation.  
“Oh, _great_. Now I’m a small cartoon dog with self-importance issues and a square head.”  
“I never said you had a square head.”  
“No, you’re just making it your life mission to make my life a misery, because you’re bored.” George shuts his mouth, abruptly. Mitchell’s voice, when he answers, is quiet.  
“It’s not because I’m bored.”  
“Then _what_?” _Please, what?_ “What Mitchell, because I don’t understand what’s going on here. I mean - you’re _smoking_. In the house! I thought you’d given up.”  
“I did.”  
“Well, clearly.”  
“I thought I’d give up giving up.”  
George shakes his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
“I have an addictive personality.”  
“I hope you don’t intend to carry that philosophy across any other areas of your life.” The moment he says it, he sort of regrets it, but Mitchell just looks as if that’s exactly what he’s been thinking himself. _Some things you just can’t help wanting._  
“George… it’s not the same. Some things are…” He licks his lips and George can’t help but stare. “It’s not a weakness if you choose it. Only if it chooses you. And right now,” he looks him in the eye and George’s stomach promptly turns to water, “I’m making a carefully considered choice.”  
“Is that so?” _This isn’t fair. Mitchell, always with his stupid grand gestures and impulsive mistakes._ George rolls back on his heels, lifts his chin. “Well - give me one.”  
“I beg your pardon?”  
 _Interesting_. “A cigarette. Give me one.”  
“You don’t smoke.” Mitchell is half laughing and half perplexed, like that’s not what he was expecting at all, and it’s doubly annoying.  
“I might do. It’s a carefully considered choice. Move up.”  
It’s strange sitting there on the bed, his own bed, next to his housemate, his best friend, the most important person in his world, really, when Mitchell is pants-less without permission. Mitchell lights up another himself and then hands him the pack with one poking out like they do in films and George expects him to hand the lighter over too but he doesn’t, he holds it out instead so that he has to lean in and breathe that enticing skin and sweat scent and be far too close when Mitchell flicks the little wheel of the lighter and cups his hand even though they’re indoors and there’s no breeze and it looks more like Mitchell is aching to cup George’s face in his palm. George doesn’t take a drag straight away. He holds it away from him and looks at it, burning bright. A little heat source seems to emanate noticeably from it, matching the gathering heat in the pit of his belly, the bigger, solid heat of Mitchell right next to him. George is aware of his presence, his physical presence, far more acutely than he ever has been before. When he glances to his side, Mitchell is watching him closely, watching his lips. George frowns a little and raises the filter and takes a cautious drag, immediately coughing it back up again in an undignified bronchial fit. And Mitchell is laughing once more and thumping him on the back and George is wishing that it was Mitchell who was coughing because he would really quite like an excuse to touch - ah, to _punch_ him - right now.  
“So how was that for a new experience?”  
“I _have_ smoked a cigarette before you know, I’m not ten years old.” He feels irritated certainly, and embarrassed, a little, but not as much as he could be. Not that much at all, really. And now here they are, still sitting on the bed, so close that George can feel the heat radiating from Mitchell’s skin, which he had always expected from handshakes and brief touches would be cold… “Mitchell-”  
“What?”  
“Have you really got no pants on?”  
Mitchell lowers his eyelids. Through the rising twists of smoke his eyes shine dark and full of something George doesn’t want to pin any hopes on. He licks his lips again, slowly, and takes another drag of his cigarette. “Yep.”  
“I’ll have to change the sheets.” And there it is, back again, that grin that is to George what blushes evidently are to Mitchell.  
“I could take offense at that.” He lolls his head against the padded headboard, inching closer. Beneath the duvet a hand reaches out to where George’s thigh rests on top, starts to stroke, the movement muffled through fifteen tog goose-down, but no less suggestive. The hammer pulse in George’s throat beats out a joyful symphony of destruction and when he looks into Mitchell’s eyes what he sees there reflected is, to his surprise, every bit as terrified.  
“I should have just turned around and walked out.” George leans against the headboard too, certain and uncertain, “I could have just - oh God, Mitchell,” he reaches a hand out, feels the rasp of stubble, the soft adoring touch of exploring lips against his palm, “what are we doing?”  
“It’s not giving up.” Mitchell whispers; this close his breath tastes sweet with a tobacco edge, “It’s just giving in.”  
And George says, “Then I give in.”


	2. Giving in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't end it there. This is what happens when you come home to find your flatmate naked in your bed, smoking.

That top-of-the-rollercoaster inertia that makes moments like this seem to last for minutes, it’s left Mitchell’s head up in the dizzy heights while his stomach is plummeting and flipping and he can’t remember the last time he felt it like this; it must have been decades ago. Their lips are millimetres apart, ghosting heat. He can feel George’s breath, warm, moist. He can see the fan of his lashes in perfect close-up, settling closed, like he’s anticipated this kiss as long as Mitchell has. He can feel the heat of the cigarette still burning to a dog-end between his fingertips-

“Oh, SHIT.”

“What? Shit! What? Oh God, what did I do?”

_That’s it. He’s killed the moment._ Mitchell can’t help but laugh because George looks so horrified, scuttling back across the bed as if he’s arm-around-the-shoulders-yawned the wrong girl at a school disco, as if he’s the one who’s been burnt. Mitchell fumbles the end of his cigarette and tries to fix this, with one hand reaching out to twist in the collar of George’s t-shirt and pull him back before he can bolt. “Nothing, you’ve done nothing. Nothing _wrong_ , anyway.” Taking a final drag, he drops the filter into the mug on the bedside table.

George says, “I told you you’d burn something.” His eyes are so wide, so blue. Then the overhead light catches the lenses of his glasses and blanks them out briefly white, and Mitchell leans in, their lips brushing. Parting. A ribbon of smoke winding between them, from his mouth to George’s and George lets out a peculiar mixture of a moan and a squeak and then it’s done, their mouths slicking together, a deep push of tongue and teeth and breath.

Mitchell isn’t sure where the thought came from: _seduce George_.

It’s not like he woke up that morning and thought of it in those terms; _have shower, take out bins, buy fags, get drunk alone at 3 in the afternoon, seduce your neurotic housemate_. He’s never thought of it in those terms before full-stop, but it’s been there unvoiced in his mind for a very long time, begging to be acted upon. Because George is just so…

“Oh God. I feel dizzy.”

Mitchell breathes and smiles and tastes him on his lips. “Is that your attempt at flattery?”

“I’m serious. It’s the nicotine fumes, isn’t it?”

“ _Fumes_. What are you like?” He traces a finger around the soft stubble on George’s jaw and George’s eyelids grow heavy again like it’s natural reflex and Christ but Mitchell just wants to keep on kissing him…

“Mitchell. This.” It tumbles out in a babble of words, “Isn’t a huge mistake is it?”

_Yes. Possibly. Probably. No. Pick an answer._ Mitchell shakes his head, reaches for him, and oh but George looks like he wants to give in properly and go with it. “I don’t want to lose you over this. If you’re… you know. Drunk.”

“I’ve had two pints and a double Archers, I think I’m in control of my faculties.” George bites his bottom lip, and he can hardly stand it. When he leans in closer again, he can feel the duvet slide from his hips, he can see George looking then pretending not to look and, fuck, “Don’t you want to?” he says, softly.

The pained conflict on his face is answer enough.

It’s more of a tussle than sweeping romance. Locked at the mouth, Mitchell insinuates a hand beneath George’s shirt, runs a palm up the lithe smooth curve of his back, until his t-shirt is rucked up under his armpits and they have to break apart in order for George to get his head briefly stuck trying to wrestle it off whilst Mitchell takes advantage of his momentary incapacitation and grapples with his belt buckle.

“You’re - ah, George, that’s my… you’re kneeling on my-“

“Oh. Dear. Sorry! Sorry…”

It’s evidently even harder to straddle someone through a fifteen tog duvet when your knees are effectively straightjacketed in your own jeans, so Mitchell takes the initiative and topples him, pinning him by the wrists and swinging one leg over. He sees George’s eyes flick ever so briefly downwards, the bob of his Adam’s Apple as he swallows hard, his breath quickening. He lets him go and George doesn’t move, his hands curling against the pillows, like he’s afraid to move. And Mitchell tugs his jeans down and off and pulls the duvet back over them in what’s meant to be a single, smooth, clothes-off-and-under-the-covers move that ends up more slapstick than ninja. When he puts his hands back on George’s waist, runs his thumbs under the elastic of his shorts, George says, “Do I have to take everything off?” and his voice does that cracking thing again that makes Mitchell want to just hold him.

“Nope. You can leave your socks on.”

“Just the socks?”

“Yep.” He slides one leg from under the duvet to display his, and the actual indignation in George’s voice is better than a hundred messed-up cutlery drawers.

“Oh, classy.”

Mitchell presses his nose between George’s shoulder blades, feels him shudder and arch his back and smiles with pleasure against his skin. “I get cold. And anyway, it’s you. I don’t have to… you know…”

“Make an effort?”

“Pretend. With you I can be myself.”

“I still think you could at least take your - oh Jesus, your feet are cold, put them back on!” He’s clearly having to try really hard to stay affronted now, with Mitchell’s hands cool against his hot skin, dipping beneath his waistband and gripping his hips and George clearly comes to some decision because he takes off his glasses and drops them onto the nightstand next to the mug full of fag ash and turns over, his eyes closed, until he’s facing Mitchell and their hips align and he gasps and Mitchell surprises himself by echoing it because _oh fuck, it’s been a long time_. “S-so how does this work, exactly?”

Mitchell rolls his hips and the twitch of George’s cock through the thin cotton of his shorts mirrors his nervous stutter. When he presses his lips against the throb of his jugular, George whimpers but inclines his head back, baring his throat and his hips begin to move in rhythm and Mitchell licks a wet stripe across his pulse and wonders if he’s afraid for more reason than his evident inexperience. He hopes not. Because George is nothing like anyone he’s known before. He smells different, feels different. Sex has become something tainted, something driven by blood - even if he doesn’t feed it’s there; the desire, the pull, the power it holds over him and his need to have power. With George there’s something else, something that makes him want the act, not the kill. It feels… _pure_.

“I’ve never… you’re my…”

“I know.”

“I mean, obviously I have with women, I’m not totally…” His eyelashes flutter, delicate flickering of his eyes behind closed lids. A slight frown furrows his brow. “I’m not your first am I?”

“George… I’m 115 years old.”

“Yes but - I mean. You might not have.” He still won’t look him in the eye, “You go out with women. I thought you - but I’m not, am I…”

Mitchell wishes more than anything he could say yes. This, here, the warm skin beneath his palms, the fluttering breath and shared desires, it’s what he never knew he was missing. Something pure. Something his. He’s never been anybody’s first anything before. First and last and always. “You’re my first werewolf.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“You have no idea.”

There must be something in his voice, because George opens his eyes a little, then, peering at him between half-closed lids, up too close and blurry and the kissing begins anew, and it starts off more gentle but quickly grows teeth as George twists and kicks his underwear off somewhere down the bottom of the bed and their hands roam unchecked, learning by touch.

When Mitchell disappears down, into darkness and heat and the scent of his own sweat and their excitement, it’s not long before George lifts the duvet and blinks down at him, lips parted and cheeks flushed and Mitchell smiles around his tight mouthful and goes slower, putting on a show, all spit and slide. George’s voice is more gasp than words. “Talk about a danger wank.” And he shudders and bucks his hips when Mitchell chuckles and gently scrapes teeth down the length of his dick. “Mitchell… I really think you ought to… if you don’t slow down…”

“You taste amazing.” He struggles up to land breathless back on the pillows again, shaking his hair out of his eyes, and George seems a lot less shy now.

“You’re very talented.”

“Is that so?”

“You’ll have to teach me.”

It’s beautiful when he gets bold. Mitchell has to hold the laughter in, because George would absolutely misinterpret it, would mistake it for mockery rather than the pure fucking delight he’s feeling that for once he’s managed to gauge this _right_ and not irredeemably bugger things up. George’s lips are at his throat now, and what started as desperate graceless thrusting has now gained an even more desperate rhythm as they slide against one another and George slips a hand down between them to wrap around Mitchell’s cock and bring him off with a shuddering burst of pleasure that narrows his world to a pinpoint for long seconds as George gasps into his hair and spills too, warm across his belly.

The first thing Mitchell thinks is, _shit, what a mess_. Closely followed by, _you’ll definitely have to change the sheets now_. George’s come feels weirdly hot on his skin, so he wipes it off on the duvet and George must be pretty blissed out because he doesn’t notice or doesn’t comment and when Mitchell looks he has that dopey contented smile on him that’s usually reserved for early 90s Disney films, or expensive ice-cream. “You seem to be a pretty quick learner,” Mitchell says and George’s smile widens, sleepily and it’s at that moment that Mitchell realises it’s been at least three quarters of an hour since he thought of blood.

“You’re not smoking that in here.”

He pauses, the cigarette halfway to his lips.

“I mean it,” says George, “this is my room.”

“You’re not serious? Come _on_!”

“I’m perfectly serious.” George opens one eye to look at him and Mitchell can’t hold back a grin. “I let you before because I wanted you to stay. If you want another cigarette, go outside.”

“You _wanted_ me to stay?”

“Yep.”

“So this was all some fiendish plot to have your wicked way with me and you reverse engineered it from the start?”

“Do not underestimate my powers of suggestion.”

Reaching over, Mitchell picks up the packet and tucks the cigarette back inside, tossing the pack back onto the nightstand, where it skids behind the lamp, out of sight. He shuffles back down under the covers, draping one arm over George’s waist, resting his cheek against his shoulder.

_Time to cultivate a new addiction._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so - I added the second half, because I really wanted to the shot-gunning bit. Then it got long, and dialogue-y, because apparently even when it’s fanfic, Being Human never goes entirely to plan. I've tried to write it sort of canonically, because I have no idea what werewolf jizz does to vampires considering their blood is toxic!


End file.
